


The Food of Love

by Fyre



Series: Desire Increase [12]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Food, Hand Feeding, the slow road to intimacy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-01
Updated: 2021-03-01
Packaged: 2021-03-13 23:00:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,095
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29783382
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fyre/pseuds/Fyre
Summary: After the Apocalypse-that-wasn't, Aziraphale and Crowley are trying new things.Wherein a demon feeds an angel.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: Desire Increase [12]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1784770
Comments: 19
Kudos: 113





	The Food of Love

There are some things a demon never needs to do, but over time, Crowley’s become quite proficient at giving them a go regardless. Why not, after all?

Sometimes, it’s a mistake, but sometimes, turns out to be worth it and almost worth all those daft little phrases humans come up to describe it: the cat’s pyjamas. The bee’s knees. The dog’s bollocks. Not that he’s ever seen a cat in pyjamas. Well, once. Instagram, the pit where desperate, attention-seeking humans went to die.

This time, he suggests it and from the way Aziraphale lights up like the illuminations, Crowley knows he’s onto a winner. It’s at his place, of course. Can’t really do much in Aziraphale’s little cubby of a kitchen, and this way, he gets to lay out all the dishes and all the tools and look like he knows exactly what he’s doing.

“What are you making?” Aziraphale asks, sounding breathless with anticipation. He’s seated at the island, hands folded and eyes bright.

“You’ll see,” Crowley says, as if he hasn’t had everything prepared and ready, just in case. He fetches packets and boxes from the fridge, opens them up, the smoky-sharp scent of cheese and well-cured ham filling the air.

“Ooh,” Aziraphale breathes appreciatively. “That’s one of those lovely German hams, isn’t it?”

Crowley’s knife slides through the ham, peeling off a tissue-thin sliver onto the cutting board. “Close enough.” He picked up the fragrant pink fragment, hesitates, then extends his arm across the island, a dainty offering for a fussy principality.

Aziraphale darts his tongue along his lower lip, but doesn’t reach out. Instead, he leans forward, lashes fluttering on his cheekbones, and pinches the morsel from Crowley’s fingertips with his teeth, the brief scrape of hard on soft turning Crowley’s spine to jelly. The hum of pleasure, the way his pink lips compress, the huff of warm air from his flared nostrils, is a wash on Crowley’s senses.

“Lovely.”

“Yeah,” Crowley manages, steadying his hand to slice some more, not nearly as thin this time, the blade crooked in his shivering hand, the sensation of Aziraphale’s teeth on his skin something to put aside and think about later.

“May I try some of the cheese?”

The wide-eyed fluttering-lashed innocence is so overdone Crowley can’t help but laugh as he pushes the cheeseboard across the marble countertop.

“Go on then,” he says.

Aziraphale’s gaze darts down, then back. “Choose one for me?”

Something wild and urgent flutters in Crowley’s chest. So this is the game they’re playing, is it? He sets down his knife and picks up another smaller one. “Any preference?”

The angel smiles, soft, warm and inviting. “Surprise me.”

The board scrapes across the counter as he drags it back, staring down at the cheeses like pieces in a board game. Aziraphale wants him to provide a tempting nibble, but he has to chose which to use for the best result. Cheese chess, he thinks giddily. Something flavourful, but that didn’t require an accompaniment. Not too crumbly, if being moved by hand.

He turns the board, cutting a delicate sliver from the Derby block, making sure to get a portion of the rich green sage running through the heart of it.

“You’ll like this,” he murmurs, offering it out on his fingertips.

The angel leans forward like a blessed human at communion – and isn’t that a thought and a half – and parts his lips, his eyes closing, and Crowley’s hand nearly betrays him by shaking as lays the creamy piece on the angel’s tongue. He draws his finger and thumb back, but not before Aziraphale’s lips close on them, a teasing whisper of silken warmth.

For a moment, he is only aware of the slight wet warmth on his skin, then Aziraphale makes a sound that drives all thoughts from his head.

“Oh, my dear,” the angel sounds ecstatic. “That’s delicious. Is that sage?”

“Well spotted,” Crowley says more than a little hoarsely.

“Oh, it’s lovely.” Aziraphale meets his eyes. “Have you tried some?”

Even if he had, Crowley knows he would’ve lied. “Nah.”

At once Aziraphale rises from the stool, picking up one of the knives and curling off a thin green-and-gold shard. “You must,” he says, scooping the curled piece on the very tip of his forefinger, offering it across, something in his adoring expression making Crowley shiver to his feet.

He leans, hands bracing him, over the island, never taking his eyes from Aziraphale’s and – with a coil of his tongue against the soft pad of Aziraphale’s finger – swipes the cheese into his mouth. He doesn’t taste a thing, too distracted by the bloom of pink in Aziraphale’s cheeks. This is new, this game. This is good. And this is warm and right and nice.

“Well?” Aziraphale prompts, hand still outstretched, as if hanging on Crowley’s reaction. To the cheese or to the game? He doesn’t know. He just reaches out, catching the angel’s hand in his, and draws it close. A kiss to each fingertip, a kiss to his palm, and breathing him in for a moment. It’s a lot. Never too much, but enough for now.

“S’good,” he finally says into the soft curve where thumb joins palm.

“Yes,” Aziraphale agrees, voice rife with a tenderness that steals the breath from Crowley’s lungs. “It’s good.” His thumb drags alone Crowley’s cheekbones, etching the outline of him, fingertips a gentle press against his jaw. “I think,” he says, utter and glorious bastard that he is, “that I’ve distracted you.”

“Mm.” Crowley kisses that inviting palm once more, then draws back, taking a long slow breath in an out. “A bit.”

Aziraphale lowers his eyes in that perfect mock demureness. “Oh dear,” he says, as if every moment wasn’t calculated.

Crowley does his level best to glare at him. “And to think I was going to make you crepes.”

“Oh!”

“Too late now,” he continues, because the angel doesn’t have a monopoly on bastardy. “Too distracted. Can’t do a thing.”

“Crowley!” Aziraphale laughs. “Don’t you dare.”

He sags dramatically against the counter. “Too late. S’all going dark!”

“You fiend!” The angel’s stool scrapes back. “I’ll just see to it myself then, shall I? How does this cooking contraption work? I’m sure it can’t be that–”

Crowley slaps his hands away from the crepe-maker. “No! No touching! You’ll break it.”

“Well then,” Aziraphale’s eyes dance. “You’ll just have to show me how it works, won’t you?”

Grumbling happily, Crowley retrieves the jug of batter. “Bastard,” he tells Aziraphale with a wag of a wooden spoon. “Absolute bastard.”

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic] The Food Of Love](https://archiveofourown.org/works/29823174) by [Djapchan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Djapchan/pseuds/Djapchan)




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